Din Standhaftige Soldat
by Moonlight-is-Innocence
Summary: Inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's "The Steadfast Tin Soldier" // For pineappleSAMBA's birthday // Norway's favorite fairytale of a little soldier clothed in red is about to have a happy ending this time around.


Din Standhaftige Soldat

"Your Steadfast Soldier"

Happy Birthday Norge!

_Disclaimer_: Axis Powers Hetalia and all associated elements (c) of Hidekaz Himaruya

* * *

It was late. Norway clicked on the lamp on the side table next to his sofa and nestled into the cushion, cracking open his book.

_There were once five and twenty tin soldiers, all brothers, for they were the offspring of the same old tin spoon_...

He'd read the story—rather, fairytale—an innumerable amount of times, but still continued to read it every night.

_Each man shouldered his gun, kept his eyes well to the front, and wore the smartest red and blue uniform imaginable._

"The Steadfast Tin Soldier"… It was one of Denmark's silly fairytales, but it was his favorite.

_The first thing they heard in their new world, when the lid was taken off the box, was a little boy clapping his hands and crying, "Soldiers, soldiers!" It was his birthday, and they had just been given to him; so he lost no time in setting them up on the table._

He didn't know what it was about the story that drew him in, time after time, night after night. He knew it was just a children's story, but some hidden romantic side of him couldn't help but to sympathize with the determined and devoted little soldier. Not matter what he had gone through, he thought of the little paper maiden, thought of her, loved her, wanted to be with her.

_By this time the soldier was reduced to a mere lump, and when the maid took away the ashes next morning she found him, in the shape of a small tin heart. All that was left of the dancer was her spangle, and that was burnt as black as a coal._

...A sad ending, to be sure. But, not all fairytales had a happy ending, he supposed.

And yet, he seemed to love her so loyally, looking and her and wanting to be with her. It made him think of someone...

_She never quite responded to him, did she?_ Norway mused. Never accepting, never rejecting... simply gazing at him as he adored at her. Listless versus cherishing.

Norway snorted and pursed his lips. _He admired her so, but it was all for naught. How ironic it is, that he would "die" for such a maiden, thinking them to be kindred. The lonely, one-legged tin soldier... Perishing for a hope and a dream that would have never come true... She wasn't even one-legged, which makes him seem even more pathetic._ He closed the book of folk tales and set it aside. _And yet, there is something admirable about an indomitable spirit like that... Perhaps that is why I enjoy the story so much_, he thought, a small half-smile tugging at his lips.

He sighed breathily, settling further into the cushions, readying for sleep and turning off the light. He thought of a handsome soldier, clad in red and blue, and of a nameless dancer who lived in a castle. He thought, as he drifted off into the careless world of unconsciousness, of how fairytales were nice, even if not all had happy endings. He imagined how the tale might have ended, if the goblin had not interfered, if the child had not been heartless and had not thrown the defective toy soldier into the blazing fire.

Would the soldier have triumphed? Would the maiden have reciprocated his feelings? Would there have been a happily ever after?

The Norwegian sighed in his sleep, flinching as a door creaked and muffled steps, attempting silence, quietly thumped across the wood floor. He peeked through half-closed eyelids, and took in the newcomer's appearance.

It was Denmark. He had known it was the so-called King of the Nordics by the way that he had opened the door ever-so-quietly—knowing that Norge would probably be on the couch reading or, having read already, would be sleeping—and by the sound of those boots that he refused to take off and used to track dirt all over Norway's clean floors on a regular basis… by the faint smell of strong ale that lingered around him.

"Did I wake you?" The Dane whispered and quirked an eyebrow. He knew that he did, but bothered to ask anyway, out of courtesy. Norway nodded briefly, though he knew that the other could hardly see the notion in the dark of the room.

"Sorry 'bout that…"

He shrugged, and turned on the lamp again and his cobalt eyes widened immediately at the other's attire. "A… soldier…" he whispered under his breath, barely loud enough for his own ears to catch the utterance.

Denmark was clad in the full dress uniform of _den danske Kongelige Livgarde_, the Danish Royal Guard: a scarlet tunic, blue trousers, and a bearskin with the regiment's cap badge. _He looks just like the soldier in the story…_ "Danmark?" Norway furrowed his eyebrows in question, unabashedly staring at the Dane's garb.

Denmark, on the other hand, seemed to be confused for a moment until he realized that the other Nordic was staring at his clothing. "Oh, j-ja…" He laughed, shrugging. "My boss wanted me to wear this old get-up for some official business."

He leaned his rifle gingerly against the wall and took off the bearskin, running a hand through spiky, sweat-mussed hair, as Norway sat up on the couch and scrutinized him thoroughly. The latter reached for the book on the side-table, eyeing it furtively, and glancing up at the Dane. The taller blond raised an eyebrow at the other's strange behavior, until the book was thrust into his face. It was opened to a picture of a one-legged soldier dressed in the very same uniform that he, Denmark, wore. He recognized the tale, of course, seeing as it was one of his own people's creations. He also knew of Norway's slight obsession—or perhaps, infatuation—with it. The Norwegian read it every night, and often fell asleep on the sofa while reading. Denmark even made sure to keep his own book of fairytales near the sofa in his own house, for when his best friend visited and, consequently, stayed the night. He had no objections to it, of course; after all, he was proud of himself for this one thing that was so close to Norway's heart that it was an unchanging routine for him. A constant in the turbulent manner of life they lead.

Denmark grinned teasingly down at the shorter Nordic and said, "Am I your soldier, Norge?" The other frowned a little, glared a little, and quickly closed the book with more force than absolutely necessary. "No," he answered vehemently, his voice as deadpan as usual. The Dane laughed at this—not exactly the reaction he had wanted, though not on the whole unsurprising—and moved to give his friend a hug, only to be expertly avoided and pushed away.

"Get out of that ridiculous outfit before I do something drastic," Norge said, giving him a level stare.

"You didn't think it was ridiculous when I first walked in," the older nation pointed out with a mischievous smirk. He took up the rifle and posed smartly. "In fact, I think I look pretty hot in it, don't you think? I know some of my boss's female subordinates certainly thought so."

The Norwegian's expression did not change much but for the almost indiscernible glower that appeared in his eyes. They had been friends for so long that Denmark was able to pick up on these subtle changes, and this glower did not escape him, though he pretended not to notice. Setting the firearm aside once more, he stepped up to his friend; he put his hands on the other's slim shoulders, slid them around his neck, and kept them there in a loose hug. Used to the Dane's constant displays of affection, Norway ignored the action and said flatly, "You got dirt all over my clean floor again." Denmark laughed, something the Norwegian thought he did entirely too often, and pulled his friend into a closer, but still gentle, bear-hug.

He heard the Dane sigh and pursed his lips in thought. As though sensing his confusion, Denmark murmured softly, his voice close to Norway's ear, "You never let me be close to you like this anymore."

The younger nation hummed a noncommittal response. It was true; he ardently avoided all affectionate contact with the Dane—quite a feat considering that Denmark publicly and passionately emoted towards Norway. He had been denying the Dane contact for a long time and never reciprocated when caught unawares in Denmark's overly friendly, overly happy embrace. But… _maybe… just this once… it's not like I hate him anyway._

Tentatively, Norway rested his hands on the Dane's strong, broad back in return. He felt Denmark's smile against his cheek and felt a corner of mouth twitch upwards. "It's the middle of the night, Danmark."

Denmark didn't respond for a moment. "I don't wanna move," he whined softly, pouting a little. Norway rolled his eyes, and as he pulled away he realized just how close they were to each other. Much too close for his comfort. Yes, it had been quite a long time since he had been comfortable at this proximity. A long time, but that did not mean he did not remember how his heart_ did not _race at closeness of the other; how, when they were young, his cheeks didn't turn rosy at the warmth of Denmark's breath on his face and lips; how his own breath never hitched as he looked into the taller blonde's bright blue eyes.

Ashamed of his own thoughts about the Dane, Norway stared down at his feet, willing his flush away. The Dane tilted his head and, smiling, grasped one of Norway's hands with one of his own. He led them to Norway's den and turned on the stereo, flipping through the CDs to find the right one. The music started to play, soft violins singing out a melody of strings, soon accompanied by a chorus of harmonizing cellos.

Norway stood there, expressionless but confused. Denmark turned to him, one-knee bent (_It… looks like he has one leg…_ Norway thought) and bowed. "Må jeg få denne dans?" He asked in his native tongue, offering a hand. "Jeg ved ikke en prinsesse."

"Men jeg er din soldat?"

Norway flushed a little and looked into the other's eyes. He saw no mockery, no condescending gaze; timidly, he put his hand in Denmark's proffered palm and was swiftly led in a waltz, falling immediately into the rhythm with the music. The tempo was pleasant and the melody entrancing, such that Norway found himself relaxing into Denmark's hands. The piece ended minutes later and the younger nation felt an unusual sensation of disappointment as he began to pull away from the other's warmth, only to be pulled back into it.

He blinked up. "Danmark?"

The music was still playing, a slower, piano concerto, and the older male swayed to the softly playing melody and he, in turn, swayed with him, arms reaching up to wrap around the tall Dane's neck. He rested his head on Denmark's chest and could hear his heart beating rapidly. Furrowing his eyebrows in bewilderment, he questioned the Dane again. "Something is wrong…"

A light laugh. "Nothing, of course."

Norway stopped their movement altogether. His hands slid from the nape of Denmark's neck to the Dane's flushing cheeks. "You are certain?"

"J-ja, Norge…"

"Then, there is nothing wrong…" He leaned up, one hand remaining stationary, the other resuming its place at the back of the Dane's head. He could feel the large hands that were resting on the small of his back clench the fabric of his clothing tighter, as the distance between them diminished. "…if I were to…" He murmured, before ending the distance entirely with a chaste kiss. Denmark's breath hitched and his eyes widened at the sudden and bold action on his friend's part—something he'd have never hoped to come from the other Nordic—and recovered as quickly as possible, returning the gesture with restrained fervor.

Norway pulled away and could hear the blood rushing in his ears. The dizzy, light-headed feeling was unlike any he'd ever known, yet it was not unpleasant and in some way… he wanted to experience it over and over again. He looked into the other's eyes, finding bewilderment and a scarcely-seen insecurity. "N-Norge…?"

His friend—or what was he now?—wrapped his slender arms around his thick waist and sighed, softly and contently, leaning his head against the broad chest again, listening as the rapid heartbeat slowed to a healthier tempo. He barely heard it as Norge whispered, "Min soldat…" and felt a growing warmth in himself at the two small words. He laughed carelessly, and reiterated his own words, as he nuzzled the smaller blonde's soft hair. "I don't wanna move…"

Norway looked up at him, and smiled, albeit a very small but genuine smile, and he led them this time to the sofa he had been sleeping on before. "Vi skal sove?" Receiving a nod in response, he lied down on the cushions, tugging Denmark next to him.

"Ummm… Nor? I don't think this tunic will be very comfortable to sleep in…"

"Take it off then."

Denmark was surprised at the usually stoic and conservative Norway's bold command but complied, tossing the scarlet tunic on the floor and pulled a blanket to cover them.

"Godnat, min Norge."

"…God natt, min standhaftige soldat."

_Ende_

* * *

Why the hell do I always make these two dance with each other? O_o

Translations:

May I have this dance?

I am not a princess.

But I am your soldier?

We will sleep? / Should we sleep?

Good night, my Norway.

Good night, my steadfast soldier.


End file.
